


Jeeves and the Time Machine

by medumyce



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27621242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medumyce/pseuds/medumyce
Summary: Reg builds a time machine. Bertie comes along for the ride.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Jeeves and the Time Machine

Time is a funny thing when you sit down to give it some thought. Most think of it as strict, marching along like a line of ants, but it was really quite easy to bend like jelly. At least in our case. All those scientifi-whatsits come quite simply to Reg; that’s his nature. I’d say it’s that dashed big brain of his. It was easy on my part, too, to get here. All I had to do was hang on. And it’s been getting easier over the years to blend in with the times. I’ve always been good at that—Reg, not so much, but the old chap is learning.

But I’ve started _in media res_ again. I should first explain how we got into this dashed ridiculous situation. It all began when I found out that Reg loved me back. 

It took me weeks to realize my bit, but when I did, I had never been surer of anything. Of course, it came as a surprise to me, what with him being the first man I’d ever consciously loved. It became natural, though, so quickly that it terrified me. I was simply one of those men who loved other men. And dash it, I was in love with my valet. 

The real trouble was figuring out whether he loved me back. That was going to be the complicated part. For one thing, the society in which Reg and myself were ensconced didn’t exactly take kindly to men of our orientation. It was of utmost importance that I was careful at every step so as not to out myself to the wrong person. 

“Jeeves,” I said to him one day at around ten, having just woken up. Phase one of my operation was to ascertain the chap’s opinion on the whole matter.

“Yes, sir?” he replied in that dashing baritone of his.

“I should like to know,” I began, but I regret to say that there is where I faltered. “Er, I should like to know… er, the state of the weather this morning.”

He, in his perfectly Jeevesian nature, noticed there was something amiss. He didn’t say a word about it, only raising one eyebrow at me in an inquisitive manner. “Sunny with a scattering of cirrus clouds and slight breeze from the west, sir,” he told me.

“Splendid, splendid. Perfect day for a stroll, what?”

“Indeed, sir.”

My Reg was a man of few words; still is to this day, as a matter of fact. But one of the reasons I love him so is his uncanny ability to get so much across in just two or three words. It never ceases to amaze me, that skill of his. All in the eyebrows, I say, and in the dashed cryptic-at-times quirk of his lips. 

I ate my breakfast and he dressed me, and I tried my hardest not to fidget as he did so. Right challenging, it was, when all I wanted to do was grasp his hand in mine! I often likened myself and my gentleman’s personal gentleman to those Venetian chaps of the bard’s. I was certainly just as devoted to him at that Bassanio fellow was to his Antonio. And I could hardly help it; I never understood how all the other men in London didn’t throw themselves at Reg’s feet like I did (metaphorically, most of the time).

The day went on much as usual, but Reg was onto me and both of us knew it. And it wasn’t just that day, either. Most mornings I would think I’d finally bucked up and got the nerve, and then I’d just start rambling about something else. I’m sure Reg suspected the young master was going mad. 

Said y. m. truly was going mad, meanwhile. It all came to a head when I sat down on the chesterfield one afternoon with considerably less jollity than usual. Reg noticed. Of course, I was probably shaking like a leaf.

“Jeeves,” I intoned, “you know that there are… men out there who… well, they think of other men the way most do ladies.”

“Indeed, I am aware, sir.”

“And if I were to ask your honest opinion on such men…? Keeping in mind, of course, that I won’t judge your opinion, whatever it may be. Speak freely, my good man.”

“Well, sir,” he said, “in my honest opinion, I believe that the sentences given to such men are far too strict. It seems that… those men are simply living their lives. One may not agree with such a lifestyle morally, but I do not see the justification of assigning them hard labor.”

It was a right sympathetic answer, and it emboldened me to continue. Phase two of my plan was, quite simply, to come out to my valet. It sounded bally simple in my head, but I quickly realized that there was just no easy way to go about it. I couldn’t just say it, obviously—“Jeeves, I’m gay” was bound to go over poorly. My best course of action was to hint like mad.

I considered dressing flamboyantly, but one look at my closet revealed to me that a) I already did, and b) Jeeves had thrown out the worst offenders anyway. So that was right out.

“Jeeves,” I said one day, at my wit’s absolute end. I had taken to dressing as bohemian-like as the man would allow, and I frequently mentioned in passing the sort of clubs which gentlemen such as myself might frequent. Nothing had worked. It was time to bite the bullet, so to speak. “My good fellow, there is something you must know.”

Suffice to say, he took it quite well. Two weeks passed before he made a confession of his own, and not a minute later we were frantically snogging on the chesterfield. 

The weeks following the blossoming of our new arrangement were, in a word, blissful. My anxieties were put to rest; the quality of life and state of mind, I quickly noticed, improved greatly. Though I could not exactly announce to my aged relations that I was now off the market, my usual habit was already one of slipping out of all engagements set by said a. r.’s, and I continued to do so without raising a single eyebrow. The problem that arose was, as you may have guessed, a societal one.

Reg (for I now called him Reg, Reggie if I was feeling especially playful; and he no longer called me ‘sir’, but Bertie) and I could not tell a soul. It was right crushing. I had been quite used to having all my romantic entanglements announced by some aunt or other, but it was dashed important that my one r. e. that actually mattered was to stay between Reg and myself.

Depressing! We shared a home, that was true, and on those few occasions he fell asleep before I did, I would sit awake for a little while just to watch his slack face as he slept, looking all the more boyish for it—though he was ten years older than I. Our hands were firmly intertwined during meals; it was all terribly domestic (and a terribly good thing that I was right-handed, and Reg was left-). Nothing, really, had changed, and yet everything changed. You see, Reg and I still had our routines, but the simplest of things had taken on wildly different meanings. But for all that, our relationship remained a secret. We could never tell any of my aged aunts or Drones chaps, nor could we ever wed. 

It was over tea that my man Reg shared his feelings on the matter, which were much the same as mine. “Bertie, I have been doing some thinking. I do find our situation most unfortunate,” he confided in me. 

“Quite so,” I agreed. “You wouldn’t happen to… oh, I know it’s a stretch, but you wouldn’t happen to’ve thought of an _idea,_ would you? Some law, some loophole, anything short of the both of us retiring to the country and never contacting human civilization again?”

“As it happens, Bertie, I have.”

“Well! Lay it on me, my good man.”

“Recently, I have been doing some reading-up on the matter of time travel.”

“Jolly interesting subj., that,” I said. “I do so admire the way you’re perfectly content to settle down for the afternoon with an improving book. But what’s it got to do with our current situation?”

Reg blessed me with a devilish hint of a smile. “Well, Bertie,” he enlightened, “I’ve done some calculations of my own and… I believe I’ve ‘cracked it’. That is to say, I believe I’ve figured out how to build a time machine.”

“I don’t believe it!” I cried. “Er, nothing against your dashed unrivaled intellect, Reg, but I’ve always thought that time travel was one of those impossible things, like rocket ships.”

“I must admit that was my thought as well. But as I said, I have been doing quite a lot of reading. I’d like to try it, at least. I am fairly confident that it should work.”

“Well, true; I suppose I couldn’t deprive you of your scholarly pursuits,” I conceded. “I still don’t understand what’s it got to do with… you know. Us.”

“I’ve theorized that in the future (should we travel far enough forward in time), two gentlemen such as ourselves will be allowed to carry on a romantic relationship, and possibly even marry.”

I will admit that I teared up, hearing that. “Good Lord, Reg, you’re a genius,” I said, not for the first time, and not for the last. “Come here. Oh, I do love you.” He came willingly and encircled me in his capable arms, arms that had carried many trays, several unconscious persons, and on one remarkable occasion, a roll of brown paper and a tin of treacle. “Just think—us, married.”

“I think of it often.”

“We haven’t time to waste, then. Let’s get to it.”

“Bertie, not so fast,” he implored, and his commanding tone stopped me short. “If this is to work, there will be consequences. Namely, the fact that it is likely to be a one-way trip.”

“I… oh. Oh, dear.” That _was_ certainly a problem. “Reg, you’ll have to leave your entire family behind. Uncles, nieces, and all. And friends, too—all those nice chaps from your club. Oh, I could never ask that of you.”

Reg looked perplexed. “Bertie, I was talking about _you,_ ” he said.

“Oh. Well. Well, I… I suppose.” I gave it a bit of thought, and found that there was even less to think about than I thought there would have. I considered my family, who near-constantly had it out for me in one way or another; my friends, who used me to their own personal ends, never bothering to stick around and bail me out of trouble. “Really, it’s just my aunt Dahlia I’d be missing,” I said. “The boys from the Drones—well, see, they’re fun to hang about with and all, but every one of them has pulled one over on me at one time or another. And most of their fiancees and-slash-or wives still think I’m madly in love with them. Would really save me a lot of trouble, this time-travel wheeze, aside from the obvious allure. Don’t worry about a thing, darling; this is the best idea you’ve come up with yet.”

I didn’t know what it was that I said, but Reg was looking at me with that loving shine in his eyes! “Bertie,” he said fondly. 

“Hello,” I replied, equally fond, and just as confused. For that I won a soft laugh.

“Consider it settled,” said my man Reg. “I shall build this device and transport us to the future, where we shall be able to live and love openly.”

He worked tirelessly on that damnable time-machine. Day and night he was tinkering away in his old bedroom, hardly ever letting me come in, except to bring comestibles and libations every once in a while. He hardly ever came to bed at the usual hour, and on one highly notable occasion, he woke up later than me. He was constantly exhausted, yet he never permitted me to help with the household chores, so I eventually had to sit him down and inform him that I didn’t need his permission to make tea every now and then. He relented, barely stopping himself from calling me “sir”.

“Can I help with the, er, chronologi-whatsit?” I asked, hedging my bets.

“Absolutely not, dear heart.” Reg looked smug as ever. “The chronological locomotion device is to be touched by my hands only. I shan’t have you hurting yourself.”

He had seemed very proud of the name of the craft, when he’d thought it up, and I, too, thought it was clever as anything. “Yes, yes, of course,” I said, only a bit put out at the rejection. After all, it got easier the more it occurred. 

“I only mean to say, Bertie,” he said soothingly, “that I have put in my hours upon hours of research on the topic, and not even I know what I’m doing most of the time. I would worry out of my mind about you connecting the wrong wire to the wrong battery and—it doesn’t even bear thinking about.”

This was true; like most sciences, electrical engineering was more up Reg’s alley than my own. I wondered constantly where he got the time to study this, that, and everything else, but I knew better than to question my man’s mysterious intellect. I simply appreciated it for what it was: bally impressive. I contented myself with handing him the odd ratchet, wrench, bolt, battery, anything he asked for and quite a lot of food that he _didn’t_ ask for (I had to force him to eat at times; the man refused to take breaks as though he wasn’t running on fumes).

Finally, the damned thing was built, christened, toasted to, and left to sit on the bedroom floor for weeks as my dear man Reg and I waffled between home, safety, and secrecy; and a new life (or perhaps death) with freedom to go along with it.

It was a difficult choice, but at the same time, it was the easiest thing in the world.

* * *

“You see, Bertie, it is quite simple to operate. Now, location is one variable we shan’t worry about, because I have already taken care of it. You see, if we were to simply travel to the future, remaining in the _exact_ location in space as we are standing at this very moment, we would find that the Earth, due to its orbit about the sun, has slipped out from under us. Therefore, we will be traveling in two dimensions: time _and_ space. We shall find ourselves in the future, but along the way, we will have traveled through space to keep up with Earth, and in doing so, remain exactly where we are now—relative to our own planet.”

“Reg, I must admit, I understood nearly none of that,” I admitted in wonder. “Though the fact that you _do_ is simply one of the many reasons I love you.”

“Thank you, Bertie.”

“Of course.”

“Now, then; the controls. I must teach you in case… well, just so that you know,” Reg said, all back-to-business-like, then demonstrated all but the very last step: “Set the dial on the left to the chosen year, pull down this lever here to connect the thingummy to the whatsit, and press the button.”

Admittedly, that’s not exactly what he said, but all those scientific terms and mechanical machinations went in one Wooster ear and out the other, missing the grey matter completely. I got the gist, though; dial, lever, button. Easy enough. I told him as much, and he accepted this as well as he accepted anything else to come out of my mouth. 

“What year, Reg?”

“Hm?”

“Well, what year are we traveling to?” I nudged him with a tweed-covered elbow. “1960? 1970? Or—what about 1980?”

“Actually, Bertie, I was thinking a bit further forward than that. What do you say about 2020?” His eyebrow lifted, and so did one side of his mouth, just slightly. It was the look I’d come to love.

“Dirty play,” I complained. “You know I’ll agree to anything when you look at me like that.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Reg falsified.

“No matter; I suppose 2020 is just as fine a year as any of the others. Only, have we got everything arranged?”

“Mrs. Travers has been informed of our imminent emigration to New York with the instructions to inform the rest of the family. I’m sure that word will spread quickly enough.”

“Goodness, now that you mention it, it does seem like everyone I know is tangled up with each other like a mass of snakes.” We both shuddered at the apt description. “Cousins, aunts, friends… you’re right. It’ll spread like wildfire, my dear fellow. And our own preparations?”

“Everything is packed, dearest. We are sufficiently prepared for the journey.”

“It’ll be a bit like jumping into a frozen pond, won’t it, Reg! Brings back memories of Oxford, jumping into the lake at Christmastime with not a stitch of clothing on the Wooster corpus. Well! Shall we?”

“We shall.”

He held out his arm for me to take, all proper-gentlemanly-like, and I took it. We walked towards the chrono-loco-thingummy and climbed into the seats, Reg shutting the hatch behind us.

“What on Earth are these?” I exclaimed, picking a tangle of sturdy straps connected to a metal buckle, which had been theretofore digging into my rear.

“That is a seat-belt, Bertie,” Reg said calmly, already trapped in his own set of straps. “You should put it on.”

I did as I was told, then watched him spin the dial to the year 2020 and pull down the lever that connected the whatsit to the thingummy (wait, no, other way ‘round). He looked up at me, finger hovering over the button. 

“Go on!” I urged.

“There’s still no guarantee that this won’t kill us,” Reg said, not for the first time. “In case it should—kill us, I mean—you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

“Now’s not the time to quote Lady Austen,” I replied as though I were not already dabbing at my eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Oh, alright; I love you too, you sop, more than anything. Now push the button. I should like to hold your blasted hand in public.”

Reg pushed the button, and, to my surprise, we weren’t torn into a million pieces—physically or metaphysically. The world spun around us, or perhaps us around it, but something was spinning, in any case. There was a loud rattling, creaking, the entire craft threatening to come apart around us, as the view outside the single tiny window became abstract smears of light and dark. I felt my body grow heavy, and found that it took a massive effort to lift even my pinkie finger. Despite it, Reg’s hand came to rest on mine, and it weighed on me like it was made of lead, not flesh and bone. It was terrifying and thrilling in equal measures. 

For a few moments, there was the stomach-dropping sensation of falling very quickly.

There was a thud as we landed (but I was neither injured nor worried, for Reg had had the good sense to install an exceeding amount of shock-absorption-material).

And then, it was all over. 

I regained my sense of balance and noted what little of our surroundings I could see out of the small window. It was a cloudy, drizzly day with a bit of a breeze, judging by the shuddering leaves of the tree above. So everything was alright in London, I thought wryly. I nudged Reggie and he blearily followed my gaze.

“It worked,” he said in a low tone.

“It worked!”

He sprang to life, fiddling with his seat-belt as best he could, still probably head-swimmy like I was. I unclipped my own restraint device, and Reg pulled a lever to unlock some seal or another and the hatch sprang open. 

I clambered out of the chronomotion-thing and stood in the fresh, raw air of 2020, becoming slightly damp in the empty lot in which I found myself. Reg, long in the legs and built as he is, had a harder time joining me, but soon we stood shoulder-to-shoulder watching futuristic automobiles whizz by at top-speed on the road before us. Beyond that, the buildings seemed taller. The world seemed bigger, louder, brighter; the possibilities were endless. I tore my gaze away from the splendid display of technology’s advances, and turned to where we had fallen from. 

“Our apartment has been demolished, Bertie,” Reg supplied most helpfully. “We were on the second floor.”

“So that explains the—”

“The drop, yes.”

“Ah.” There was a slight twist in my gut at the thought of my old flat not being there anymore. I would be feeling quite a few twists in my gut, I supposed. But I didn’t want Reg to catch me looking melancholy. “Good sense with the foam and whatnot,” I told him. “You think of everything. Shall we walk around and get acquainted with our new surroundings?”

“Indeed, Bertie.” He cleared his throat. “I shall unload our belongings from the craft.”

“Good man.”

Reg lifted the two suitcases out from under our seats and wouldn’t allow me to carry one. We hadn’t brought much; Reg said something about timelines and anachronisms that I took his word for. He hadn’t let me bring either of my favorite hats, saying something about there not being enough room, but, well, I didn’t believe that for a second. Now, though, I had forgotten all about those silly hats.

I wish I could properly convey everything I felt that first day, but really, it was indescribable. A literal, physical paradigm shift. Nearly a hundred years had passed since I woke up that morning, Reg wrapped around me like a clinging vine to a cottage in the country. We wandered through the streets, nearly getting hit by automobiles until Reg discerned the proper mode of crossing the street and kindly informed me (at the painted-on stripes, of course). There were billboards _everywhere,_ modern and sleek as an ivory dinner jacket, that changed every few moments to a new image. This was about the point where I became able to speak again, and I commented on such advertisements. 

“Look, they show movies everywhere now,” I said, pointing up at a familiar soda brand. “Er. Just the ads, though. Where are they _projecting_ it all from?!”

“I shall endeavor to find out, Bertie,” Reg told me, sounding like his mind was elsewhere. My theory regarding the whereabouts of his attention was confirmed when he cleared his throat lightly.

“Yes, Reg?”

“The reason we came here, Bertie.” He discreetly gestured to a pair of young ladies in trousers, embracing lovingly on the street corner across from us. They shared a brief kiss, and the most amazing thing happened: nothing at all. No one paid them any mind.

I was overcome. “They’ve got new hair colors in the future,” I managed to say. “That shade of lavender matches her complexion quite fetchingly.”

Reg shook his head, but he was smiling softly. In my extensive catalog of Reg-smiles, I think that the soft, eye-crinkling one he gave me on the pavement across from the two ladies kissing is my favorite one of all. He tilted my chin up and brushed his lips softly across my cheek, then my own mouth. It was brief, infinitesimal—if that’s the word I’m looking for—but it thrilled me to the very core of my being. I never dreamed of being able to do this. 

Dear reader, when I say the love-light was shining in my good man Reg’s eyes when he pulled away, I mean that I have never seen him look so foolish and soppy. To the onlooker other than myself, Reg’s face must have looked almost as stony-with-a-hint-of-smug as it always did, but to my well-trained eye, he looked positively radiant. I almost always wondered what the great enigma was thinking about, with an expressionless face like his, but now it was quite clear.

We had survived the blasted journey, and everything was worth it. Now, our objective was, quite simply, to settle into the twenty-first century. We had accounted for technology and such; new things were being invented all the time, and why should that change in the future? Social conventions, however, were one thing that neither Reg nor I could anticipate. I’ve always thought of Reg as sort of timelessly classy, if a bit socially awkward whenever he was outside of his regular field, but I myself was very on top of the trends. Trends that were now a century old.

Reg discreetly took my elbow and I noticed that I had been goggling at… well, everything, but it was all so bright. Loud, too. People shouting on the streets, which, admittedly, they also did in our time, but it seemed louder now, if only because everything else was so in-your-face. Thankfully, Reg pulled me out of the tempest of lights, advertisements, and automobile horns, and into a small shop.

I looked around. It was a bookshop—of course. The only time Reg _wasn’t_ entirely predictable was when he was cooking up those wacky machinations of his. I told him as much and he graced me with a smug smirk. “You looked a bit… overstimulated, Bertie,” he said by way of explanation.

“Hmmm. Yes, alright, I suppose I believe that, and not that you saw a bookshop and couldn’t resist,” I replied indulgently. 

“We’re here already; we might as well look around.”

“Spinoza put out any new volumes, do you think?”

That got another hint of a smile out of him. See: he’s not as flinty as he chooses to believe. I felt his hand creeping down my forearm as we wandered through the shelves, fingers lightly brushing the tweed of my jacket, flirting against my wrist. It warmed me from the inside to capture his hand in mine for all to see. We walked like that for a few minutes (though the minutes seemed like hours) until Reg excused himself to look for the kind of books that I was not likely to enjoy. Namely, nonfiction. I graciously let him go off, and wandered off myself in search of the pulp fiction.

The building I was presently perusing must have been old, for it creaked beneath my wingtips, but the ceiling looked quite odd to my antique eyes. It was not painted, but tiled with some speckled material, inset with glowing tiles, and at regular intervals across the grid were small machines plated with glass, which I would later learn were video cameras.

I found the novels I had been looking for and spent a few minutes marveling over them, each glossy-covered and bright. I flipped through one and could hardly understand it. But I couldn’t spend too long away from Reg, not in such strange, uncharted territory as that upon which I was currently standing. I discovered my better half across the shop, absolutely drowning in scientific manuals. “Reg,” I tried.

Well, it was of no use, and I should have known. When my Reg starts reading, almost nothing can tear him away from his books. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Mm?” he said, only devoting a fraction of his attention to me.

I pointed at the improving book. “What’s this about?”

“This? Oh, it’s an engineering textbook,” he replied. “I was just reading about electricity. It’s quite interesting, Bertie. I’d explain it to you now but we’d be here for hours. They have better _televisions._ ”

“Televisions?” I exclaimed. “How on Earth did they improve the televisions?”

“Made them bigger, I believe.”

“Good Lord, Reg. It’s all so—.” I felt very small. “I mean to say…”

“I know, Bertie,” he replied, setting aside his sizable tome. Of course he understood. The daze had worn off and everything hit me at once. I wondered if he had experienced the same. 

“Don’t you feel like everything is… faraway, but too close all at the same time?” I continued. “Did you see how fast those automobiles were going by?”

“Yes.” His face became truly stony for a moment. “I told you this was going to be difficult.”

“Oh, I know, I know; it’s all worth it. The getting-used-to bits will soon be a fond memory to laugh at.”

“Yes, I suppose they will.” And back to the book he went. 

I shimmered away in a rather Reginaldian fashion, and sought out a shop-attendant. I asked the young aproned-and-bespectacled lady where the nearest library was, and she most helpfully directed my attention to St. James’ Square. I was glad that the library, at least, was still there. 

Reg was more or less exactly how I’d left him, save for the advancement of a few pages. “Come on, we’ve got a whole city to explore,” I said, tugging on his arm in an uncharacteristic display of affection. 

“Bertie, I’ve barely started on my book.”

“You can read more books later, just trust me!” 

He gave me a certain look, but re-shelved the book and followed me out of the shop. Exiting the shop, which still bore some resemblance to the world from which we’d come, was quite another shock altogether. This time, with Reg’s hand grounding me from where it firmly clasped my own, I was able to take in the full sight of the future without feeling like I was floating away. 

I looked at him expectantly. I trusted him completely. 

“Well, then?” I asked. 

“I shall have to find us accommodations,” Reg said thoughtfully. “That is, until we are able to rent an apartment or some such mode of housing.”

“Jolly good.” I smiled at him. “Bit like… oh, traveling to another country, isn’t it? Except it’s all supersonic automobiles instead of Shinto temples.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve read about the religions of Japan,” Reg replied. “You see, Shinto, as you said, Confucianism, and Buddhism are quite common over there. As well as a number of new religions that have sprung up. Ah… they _were_ quite common. I would have to read up on the subject, to make sure my knowledge is up-to-date.” A look of horror passed over his finely-chiseled features. “Oh, Bertie, I shall have to re-learn everything I have ever read about.”

“Don’t panic, Reg!” I said quickly. “Think of it as… as reading a history book. That’s all it’ll be. What’s a hundred more years to a history book?”

He straightened up and regained his composure more quickly than I had—I was not quite done regaining mine. There was that feudal spirit of his that made him unbeatable. 

“Indeed, Bertie,” he replied. But I only heard that from him when he felt as though he had nothing more to say. He was still nervous, and that made _me_ nervous, but one of us would have to be strong. We knew it would be difficult to acclimate. I was only used to Reg being the strong one, but as we stood outside that bookshop, I realized that the task now fell squarely on my own shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> i was unsure whether i should post this and honestly still not sure if i want to continue


End file.
